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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25744042">They emerged once more, and beheld the stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelle_hemlock/pseuds/Isabelle%20Hemlock'>Isabelle Hemlock (isabelle_hemlock)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But he comes back, But the next two are first person POV, Catholic Guilt, First Joe, Gay Romance, Gay Smut, Hand Jobs, Love Declarations, M/M, One Death, Romance, So feel free to read that one as well, The first chapter is second person, Then Nicky, There's a mildly described act of a, This ended up being a sort of prequel to Cleanse, also, but i love these two, cannot account for historical accuracy - Freeform, handjob, have not read the comics - Freeform, obviously</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:14:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25744042</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelle_hemlock/pseuds/Isabelle%20Hemlock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Winding back the clock - to when they were just Yusuf and Nicolo - and how they became the Big and Little Spoon . . . and then more ;)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The prologue (or the set up ;) ) is in third person - but the first chapter is Joe’s POV, while the second chapter is in Nick’s POV.  And as an actual practicing - like hand to God, daily mass several times a week - Catholic . . . please don’t tell my priest that I wrote gay smut okay?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1109 A.D. - Cyprus </strong>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ten years.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten years since the last time they aged.  Ten years of “purgatory” as Nicolo liked to call it.  The first few months of their new life was spent in bloodshed, neither wanting to fight, but dragged into it anyway.  Their sense of righteousness (and commanders) telling them to avenge the fallen comrades, and the “honor” of Jerusalem.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How the holy city wept as the blood flowed freely in the streets.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The siege went on for months.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nicolo and Yusuf had a few cuts and scrapes that healed a little too quickly, but they had managed to hide it well enough in the back of their respective groups (and convinced themselves God was saving them for the end, for something special).  By the time they faced each other, they hadn’t actually ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone (though wounded plenty), until they killed each other.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Poetic?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Yusuf would joke later.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic</span>
  </em>
  <span> - Nicolo would huff in reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until one too many stares, one too many questions about how they had dragged themselves out of the piles of the dead, that they realized they were on their own - worse, not only no longer accepted, but</span>
  <em>
    <span> feared</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too.  And they had seen what righteous, religious men do when they were afraid.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>An uneasy truce had been settled between them, exchanged more in pensive looks than any vows said out loud.  Though they couldn’t die, they felt pain and hunger, and without support, they would need each other.  They had tried a few weeks apart here and there at first, but found it was safer to travel in a pack among the war torn countries.  They were less likely to be attacked by highway robbers, or gutted in alleyways for a few gold coins.  Plus, they could share resources working the menial jobs among the marketplaces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But they never did stay long.  Their obvious differences attracted too much attention, until they were able to reach the ocean and travel among the port cities after a few months of desert living.  There they were still noticed, but it wasn’t so much of a focus.  People cared more about making sure the ships were well stocked, and the crates unloaded to the proper vendors.  After a year of sand, tents and dirt huts, finding a stone building to rent for a few weeks felt as close to Heaven as they could reach.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Feeling more settled than they had previously, they agreed it would be best to not stay longer than a few weeks at a time - in case people would eventually recross them and notice their lack of change in comparison to the withered faces of the aging sailors.  But it was here, in the port cities where things were busy, but at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>safer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that the stagnation of their daily banal routines of everyday life allowed them to get to know each other outside of their mutual killing skills.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Yusuf felt that Nicolo was no longer the Crusader, that Catholic, or even the pale faced man - he was strikingly human.  Not so unlike him after all.  And Nicolo enjoyed the stories of poetry and love saga’s that Yusuf had grown up with.  But the intensity of love he relayed in his voice, stirred things within Nicolo that he was not ready to face yet. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Yet for the former Muslim at night, without the distractions to keep the mind busy - the thoughts would come back, the memories would overwhelm, and the only way Yusuf felt somewhat safe - was with his back to the wall, and facing the door.  When Nicolo shared how he had noticed this habit at the third port town they had settled, Yusuf admitted that though it made no logical sense, he struggled at night with not feeling safe enough.  He apologized for having such an “odd habit” and was too embarrassed to even look back at the fellow soldier.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>And yet, Nicolo didn’t miss a beat.  He grabbed his sleeping pack and furs, and rolled them out beside him.  He didn’t say anything, his back to Yusuf, but between him and the door.  Silently assuring him that whatever might come through the door, would have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>get</span>
  </em>
  <span> through him, and the little knife he always kept hidden under his feather pillow.  Yusuf almost cried in relief, and though he wanted to thank him for it - wanted to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot </span>
  </em>
  <span>of things actually, he was scared to admit how much the gesture really meant to him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As for Nicolo, he doesn’t say much, preferring talks about righteousness and God, and doing acts of mercy for his neighbor.  But the fact that he could do this to help Yusuf, felt . . . </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that night, they fall asleep beside one another - and every night since without a word - Nicolo waiting for Yusuf to settle, then unrolling his own sleeping set.  They never do talk about it.  Just sleep peacefully next to one another as they continue to travel from one port town to the next - sharing supplies, earnings, and materials; doing odd jobs as long as they can, the same cycle over and over again - until years and years pass . . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But that’s just Nicolo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Yusuf would sometimes sigh to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>quietly doing the kind thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He never makes a fuss over it, even when Yusuf tries to point out that it’s okay to save the last piece of bread for his hungry belly, Nicolo shakes his head a little, and still gives it to the children on the corner.  One time he caught the former Crusader praying over them, mumbling words quietly that he couldn’t hear from the distance.  He made a sign in between, similar to the shape on his torn, and bloody tunic that he had left behind in the Holy Land.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yusuf had stopped praying a long time ago, and though he didn’t see a point to it anymore, he couldn’t be cynical about someone asking God to keep the children safe.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Other times, Nicolo would leave an extra coin or two for the staff, or buy extra cloths to share with people.  Anytime Yusuf had tried to point it out that it was a waste of their limited resources, Nicolo would just look at him with those big eyes of his, and he lost whatever point he was trying to make.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The only time he ever saw the old Nicolo - the angry soldier he first met on the battlefield - was not when it came to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but when he thought others were taking advantage of someone.  Then his big eyes would narrow on the injustice, and he’d step in, saving more than one person from being attacked or robbed.  Yusuf didn’t mind finishing them off (it helped with the anger and frustrations of an unsettled life) - and together, they’d throw them over the pier in the middle of the night.  They told themselves they were helping people.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course sometimes, angry-soldier-Nicolo came out of his shell, because some people were just downright stupid.  They would be at the local tavern, enjoying a cold drink after a long day, and two or three sailors would drunkenly make a remark about them (assuming Yusuf wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself as a minority on the Greek islands, or that Nicolo was too small to put up a fight).  And Yusuf would watch on with a smirk - because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> had made that very same mistake about Nicolo when they first met.   But Nicolo could handle himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>just fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and pretty soon after a bar fight or two, they could enjoy a few weeks of relative peace.  Sipping their refreshments in a shaded corner, and watching the sunsets on the horizon.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the angriest he ever saw Nicolo get, was that night in Cyprus.  Even though they were walking together, Nicolo’s large tip had left an impression on a group of men at the bar, and they had followed them on their way out.  Yusuf knew they could take them on, but he didn’t want anyone else hurt - or see them healing.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>So when the men started jogging towards them, Yusuf pushed Nicolo into the nearest alley and they waited for them to round the corner.  Armed with a dagger and sword each, they were ready - but had miscalculated the other end of the alleyway.  While Nicolo made an impressive lunge, another one had come up behind them, grabbed Yusuf, and plunged a sword into his neck before he could even react.  Ten years of no serious combat had dulled his senses, and he was more pissed off at </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span> then the spineless coward behind him.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>As he let out a guttural shriek, Nicolo whipped around and the panic on his face imprinted down to Yusuf’s very soul.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anger at the murderer, anger at himself for falling for the trap, and anger for somehow not having prevented it - just pure panic and anger contorted Nicolo’s face.  He tried to rush towards Yusuf, to catch him presumably as the coward took out the knife (which made a rope of blood splatter against the tan wall beside them).  But the other two grabbed each of his arms, while the third gave Nicolo a jab to his stomach, before ripping the coin purse from his belt.  Just for good measure, the coward plunged his knife into Nicolo’s leg, before they ran off as fast as they could.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Yusuf remembered slumping to the ground, fading away, and the desperate prayers Nicolo repeated over and over again until his voice sounded further and further away.  He didn’t know if this time was it.  Was the curse lifted if someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> killed him?  Did it only work when they died in the Holy Land?  If this was really it, then Yusuf knew he would die regretting not having said certain things to Nicolo . . . </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>. . . When he did come back, it was in Nicolo’s arms.  Yusuf wasn’t sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nicolo looked so upset, and didn’t understand until he confessed that he had the very same fears Yusuf was afraid to share.  The only other time he had died was at Nicolo’s hands and the Crusader grimaced at the memories of his actions, “I am so sorry I killed you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He should have just thanked him for the apology and moved on, already healed, already fine.  And besides, it was unnecessary.  He had forgiven him a long time ago.  But Yusuf had caught the smiles Nicolo tried to hide at his jokes before.  And thinking Nicolo would appreciate it if he played the moment down, he merely looked at him with a smirk, “Which time?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Nicolo’s lips quivered, as if he was about to cry, and Yusuf was quick to sit up, though regretted it instantly when Nicolo’s arms withdrew their hold, “I was just kidding - I know, I know - “  But Nicolo was already standing, and fixing the torn pant leg that revealed blood over his own healed wound.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He insisted on getting back to the home and leaving - surely someone might have heard their screams, and they couldn’t explain healing from the knife wound to the neck.  It was better to disappear again, in case any of the robbers were locals who knew them.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>When he turned away to head back to their lodging place, Yusuf felt the pang of guilt, and quietly continued the sentence he meant to say out loud earlier, “I’m sorry too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Two Hours Later</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were about five miles out of Limassol, embarking on a two day journey towards Larnaca.  Walking silently along the coast, until exhaustion overtook them and they walked inland safe from the night tide - settling among a dense set of trees.  They hadn’t seen anyone for at least an hour, and from the flat spaces of land ahead of them, they were unlikely to come across anyone.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But the familiar ill feeling came along - as the stars shone bright above them, as the all too recent memory of death swirled through Yusuf’s brain, he became uneasy.  Nicolo hadn’t said a word since the alley, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Yusuf had become reliant on the crusader’s close proximity to help settle his nerves at night.  But they had that awkward exchange, and maybe Nicolo would keep his distance tonight?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yusuf was so afraid of the possibility, that he was hesitating to even settle for a spot to lay down.  Cleaning up the camp site, and taking far too long to extinguish the fire . . . finally, with a quiet reserve, Nicolo’s voice spoke up, “Are you going to pick a spot?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His back was to him, but Yusuf felt relief to realize he was merely waiting on him - just like he had for years now.  Nothing had changed, and he finished with the fire, and quickly grabbed his rolled up sleeping pack.  There was a particularly dense set of trees and a large boulder he decided to lay against, facing the vast expanse of the ocean once he settled on his side.  About a moment later, the familiar patter of Nicolo’s stride closed the space between them, and he unrolled his own pack quietly and carefully.  As usual he turned away from Yusuf, but maybe that was for the best - Yusuf’s smile might have been too much for Nicolo’s nerves tonight.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*or put another way* how some drawings gets them to first base</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I don’t know what we should call each other - not friends (that seems trivial),</span>
  <em>
    <span> companions?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  I’ve watched Nicolo these last ten years, his quiet, reserved ways.  His ability to bring peace and prayers to the afflicted.  His ability to defend himself just fine in a bar brawl when someone looked at me funny - but still even now, even after Nicolo thought I wasn’t coming back, doubt swirled for how deep my concern for my companion could go.  After all, most of the Christians looked at us strangely no matter what country we are are in.  They can’t understand our friendship, and some days, I don’t understand it myself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Nicolo is kind to me.  It’s not just a show.  Or some sort of ingrained routine.  He seems to deal with some inner guilt, and turmoil in a different way than I do, convinced that God is still watching us, and needing to find a way to escape this “purgatory” we are stuck in (while at this point, I’m starting to think that God checked out a while ago - and we are on our own).  But his faith had told him that he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be kind to a Muslim.  So the fact that Nicolo is, seems to go against his own faith.  Nicolo is just kind, </span>
  <em>
    <span>to be kind</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Companion . . . the word felt close to what seemed plausible.  But still, not quite.  I know that my heart warms when I am able to make him smile (which is why I tried in the alley).  How beautiful he is when it’s a genuine, grinning ear to ear, smile.  And his laugh - so few and far between - but when I get it out of him, the whole top half of his body shakes a little, and I feel that warmth spread through my chest.  Tonight, when I woke up in Nicolo’s arms - that warmth felt searing hot where his fingertips were on my skin, inspecting the now healed neck wound. My dried blood already crusting on his fingertips..  And there was something else I was feeling - something I had refused to give into.  Something I knew Nicolo would never accept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s unlikely that Nicolo would ever touch me like that again.  I am going to have to settle for his body near me at night, but never touching.  Watching Nicolo, but always from a respectful distance . . . </span>
  <em>
    <span>and yet.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Once I’m certain that he’s asleep, watching the steady rise and fall of his body beside me, I lean up on my elbow and carefully reach for my pack.  After a few quick movements, I pull the leather bound parchment papers from it.  The side pocket has some charcoal sticks and I sit up against the rock to settle into place.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He moves a little when the initial scraping along the paper breaks the silence of the night air around us.  But quickly resettles.  Nico never seems to be bothered in his sleep (something I envy him for).  So I begin to sketch his resting form, and tell myself this is enough.  That being able to study him close up like this, will be as close as I can get without touching him.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I’ve done this countless times, but unlike the other pages that Nicolo enjoys skimming through - these sketches </span>
  <em>
    <span>of</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nicolo over the last decade, are folded and tucked away in another small wooden case deep down in my personal bag.  Something about it, the study of his body and face - felt too intimate to discuss, or even to acknowledge.  And though he would probably feel embarrassed if he ever stumbled on them, somehow I can’t bear to part with them either.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But his face begins to contort a little, first a lip quiver, then a furrowed brow, and finally, a tear falls down the side of his face.  I instantly freeze the stroke, and watch, unsure of what is happening.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I had seen Nicolo cry before - on the battlefield, weeping for his friends, and comrades.  Even mourning for the dead strangers.  I saw him cry at the sight of chapels we would pass by from one city to the next - I would assure him he could go inside, that I would wait for him, but he never takes me up on the offer.  The one that made me cry with him (even from an unseen distance), was when he realized his prayers couldn’t save a small village dying from a disease that affected everyone but us.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But I can’t remember ever witnessing Nicolo having a nightmare.  This is new, and I inch closer, unsure if I should wake him or not.  When he startles awake, I rush forward, and he lands against my shoulder instantly settling against me.  I curve one arm around his back and try to comfort him, “It’s alright, I’m here.  You’re safe.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The way his arms cautiously wrap around my arm leaves me breathless, and the warmth from before returns.  I want to tell him something, anything about how he makes me feel . . . but he is already pulling back again.  I know better than to try to grab him too quickly.  His reflexes, even under fear, are far too strong to just go along with something he wouldn’t want.  And I don’t know if I could take the very real possibility of him denying me so easily without bursting into tears.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is sitting up, our faces painfully close, but he looks down while I can’t help stare at the way the wind brushes against his hair.  And so, I don’t realize I was still clutching the binder, and when he sees . . . sees the portrait I made of him, his eyes get a little wider, “Is that me?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He stares at the sketch, not looking at me, and I admit to it because frankly there’s no denying the evidence, “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His lips part a little, but he closes them again - as if he’s carefully thinking of what to say.  I frown a little, hating the idea of him censoring his thoughts with me.  He fidgets a little, pulling at the fur blanket underneath us before he quietly speaks, a tone of uncertainty dripping from his mouth, “You said you only drew things you found beautiful.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I debate if I should answer truthfully.  I actually consider lying (though that thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth), or at least down playing the truth - covering it up with a joke.  But I had made that mistake just a few hours ago, and in the dead of night, alone, with only the stars as our witnesses, I decide to finally explain just how beautiful he is to me, “You look like one of the old statues on this island.  Carved perfectly out of marble.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His breath catches in his throat, and I can see the pulse in his neck quickening.  He isn’t telling me to stop, so I’m going to tell him the truth.  All of it, “Your hands are my favorite to draw.  When you don’t think I see you, I sketch them when you use them help those around us.  When you give away all our money to strangers, or the extra food, as if we won’t need it tomorrow.  Or when you unroll your sleeping pack next to mine, because you know you make me feel safe enough to sleep, to dream - but what I dream the most about are your eyes.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Finally, he looks up at me, and I don’t know if I am going to be able to tell him everything before I become overwhelmed, “Those ocean colored eyes that even now, sparkling with tears, look like pools that I want to get lost in.” And when his mouth parts a little, just the slightest little gasp, I respond more emotionally than I thought I would, “Yes, I drew you.  I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> drawing you - because I think you’re beautiful.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>When I let a moment pass, seeking some sort of confirmation of reciperation, I think I see something familiar: </span>
  <em>
    <span>yearning</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  So I lean forward and sigh in relief when he meets me halfway.  It’s a careful, slow, tantalizing tease of a kiss.  Lips just barely brushing up against one another.  And I smile against them, when I hear him whisper my name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My other hand rests on his face, cupping it to keep us both steady in our aim.  He turns his face inside my grasp just enough to open his lips, “I wondered if your skin would taste different than mine.”  And then, as if his words hadn’t just shattered me so deliciously - without even giving me a moment to let my brain process it, he takes my thumb into his warm mouth.  The little moan he emits as his tongue swirls over it is my undoing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I push him back gently onto the furs beneath us.  One arm wrapped around his shoulders, while his arms wrap around my back.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I don’t think either of us really know what we are doing - teasing kisses, turning into messy ones with nips, and teeth clashing at least twice, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear God</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when his tongue sweeps across mine, I feel something click into place inside my heart.  </span>
  <span></span>
    <br/>
  
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It’s my turn to cry a little.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Nicolo's turn! :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Nicolo's point of view ~ oh how I hope I did this man justice!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His words melt over me, my body feeling downright feverish under his careful hands.  <em>Yusuf</em> - the soldier, the Muslim, the dark skinned man who had taken over my dreams before I ever met him . . . . to the point I thought it was a vision from God.  A decade ago, the weeks on the ship preparing for the Holy Land, I prayed - prayed I could just do the missionary work, offer medical help, counsel.  How foolishly I believed the leaders that God willed our recapture of Jerusalem.  I convinced myself that when everything had fallen, and I was dragged off that ship as a last resort with fellow ill trained men, that I was doing God’s work.  But God wasn’t on that field that day.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Now the very hands that had caused my death, many times over, grazed gracefully across my skin.  Yusuf, the man who sees me when I didn’t think he cared.  Or worse, when he seemed annoyed with me, when he would try to tell me we shouldn’t be so generous to everyone around us.  But up until now, I had believed that I was making atonement for our sins.  That through redemptive suffering, or restorative justice, I could somehow forgive myself in ways that I feared God couldn't.  It wasn’t about earning our ticket to Heaven, or even avoiding Hell - it was about becoming worthy to be in Our Lord’s presence for <em>whenever</em> this curse was over.  And I wanted to do enough to convince God to let Yusuf into Heaven, too.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But when I watched him slowly bleed to death in my arms - when I prayed and </span>
  <em>
    <span>I prayed</span>
  </em>
  <span> and begged God not to let me have this immortality myself.  I finally accepted something that I hadn’t been able to articulate before . . . </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Yusuf - the man who drew more beautifully than the monks in their manuscripts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf - the man who shared poetry and love stories from his homeland that made me yearn for the kind of love he was talking about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf - the only one who could make me laugh in this limbo of a life.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf - who I wanted to protect, to shield from anything that would cause him harm.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Yusuf . . . the man I loved.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His warm body, pressing against mine feels so comforting, and hot - desire shoots through me, but something else, too.  A tightness in my chest, a desperate desire to cling to him.  But as his hand moves from my jaw, down to my chest . . . and then down my stomach, I surprise us both when I stifle a moan against Yusuf’s mouth.  He pulls back just enough to stare down into my very soul breathlessly, “Do you want me to stop?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I should say, “yes”, but already my body betrays me, and my hips buck a little.  He groans, but is waiting for my final approval before doing anything else.  Something else takes over all reasoning, over my upbringing, or faith.  I don’t allow myself to dwell on it.  I want this moment, and I want him.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I put my hand over his and push it down until he reaches the bulge of my pants.  We both close our eyes at the sensation, and Yusuf covers my mouth with his.  It only takes a moment before his fingers reach underneath and he begins to stroke.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It’s almost embarrassing how quickly the heat licks against my back and shoots down, forcing me to writhe into an arch that Yusuf holds down with his body.  But as much as my mind doesn’t want to allow myself to</span>
  <em>
    <span> fully</span>
  </em>
  <span> enjoy this, my heart is another matter.  When I hear him groan my name, a not so subtle reminder that he’s got me in his powerful grip, I let myself fall over into the passion.  I shout out his name into the night air, and wonder how many more years of purgatory I just added to my sentence . . . </span>
  <em>
    <span>but then again</span>
  </em>
  <span> . . . </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Once the blood starts coming back to my head, I stare nervously up at Yusuf, his eyes hooded, and his pupils so dark looking down at me.  I think he’s holding back, waiting to see what I do or say next before daring to move again.  I should touch him, too - return the favor - but not out of duty.  But because I want to.  I want to make him shake as he calls out for me.  And yet I know what he <em>really</em> needs - he needs the words.  He said such beautiful things to me, the least I can do is be honest with him before I do anything else.  I’m not a poet like he is, but something tells me he won’t mind.  And he deserves to know how I feel.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Earlier in the alley - “ he settles down beside me, little tiny kisses here and there on my shoulder that make it hard to concentrate, “I was praying for you to come back because I wasn’t sure - “.  My voice trails off.  How do I fully explain it?  How can I find the words, when I’ve never strung them together like this before?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The thought of doing immortality alone, is a heavy fear to carry,” he says it in a way that implies he has the same fear.  But it’s more than that, I reason.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I turn my face to his, push my body on its side and somehow, I’m not as afraid as I thought I would be to say it - though my heart is beating furiously, “No what scares me, is the thought of losing you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>His careful hand grips my arm a little tighter as the words register instantly, his dark eyes falling on my face, and seeing exactly what I’m straining to say . . . his hesitation is gone, and frankly, so is mine.  As he settles back on top of me, his warm body pressing against mine and lifting my tunic up over my chest, I breathe out the words that have been etched on my heart for a while now, “If I have to spend purgatory like this - forever entwined with you - then I don’t think it’s purgatory.  I think it’s a gift.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods his head, before pulling the tunic off of me and I am laid bare before him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We have seen each other naked - a hazard of close quarters, and no bathrooms - but this is different.  This isn’t a dip in a cold river.  And under his stare, I find myself growing hard again.  It’s my turn to raise the tunic over his muscled body, and Yusuf eagerly helps - maybe he’s worried I’ll change my mind.  I need him to know that this won’t be a one time thing.  That once we do this, it will be forever.  As he sits back on his ankles, and I have the chance to study him as well, I feel my cheeks flush, a heat that spreads down into my chest.  My heart beats so loudly I don’t know how he can’t hear it.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He is so devastatingly beautiful, "I used to think that the fact that women couldn't arouse me was because God destined me for the clergy.  And that when I found a man's body more beautiful, it was a stumbling block from Satan.”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I lift myself up before him, spreading my legs and climbing into his lap, “But only God can give life.  And He keeps us united on this path, and I think there's a reason for that.  We have His work to do, but also that we aren't meant to do it alone.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groans when my hardness presses against his lean muscular stomach, and I can barely hear my own voice, when I moan his name.  The fingers on his right hand encircle me again, the other set hold me in place, pressing against my hip.  But it’s his turn to feel pleasure, so I reach between us: carefully, slowly,</span>
  <em>
    <span> tantalizingly</span>
  </em>
  <span> slowly.  I feel warm flesh until I reach the hardness of his erection, never allowing my eyes to part with his, because I want him to see the truth in them, “God's approval or not, I'm in love with you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth opens and I swoop in.  I don’t need the words directed at me just now.  I already know how he feels.  And we will have a lifetime to say them to one another.  Right now, I need him to feel pleasure at my hands.  I need him to shout my name like I did his just minutes before.  I need him to cling to me, like I am clutching him.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>And when it happens, when his head falls back and he gasps and shudders his lower body underneath me, I finally feel settled.  Whole.  Complete.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But also exhausted.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More will happen later - when we can sail to another island, and rent a house and be left alone for a week.  Where we will have actual privacy, and aren’t out in the open.  But for now, we are both satiated enough to curl against one another, and pepper little kisses until we are both consumed with sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>The Next Day</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We reached the port town just before noon.  Stealing knowing glances at one another, but somehow doing a good enough good to look like we are nothing more than traveling companions.  But we won’t be staying in this port for long.  We are both itching to find a safe space to settle down for a bit.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are a few ships still in the harbor that we can buy a ride on.  I try to think of the farthest we can get away where we shouldn't run into people from here - but also the shortest trip so we can get that privacy as quickly as possible . . . Yusuf seems equally impatient, and we agree to separate for an hour, if only to get going faster.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would go to the docks to find out which ship is going where, while I buy us a few fresh food items for the trip at the marketplace, before we would break for lunch at the local tavern.  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>But after last night, even an hour feels far too long, and I find my mood immediately elevated when he finds me at the tavern table in a corner overlooking the ocean.  I know he wants to reach out for me, like I do him, but we have to settle for our boots straddling near one another underneath the table legs.  There are silent declarations in our exchanged looks, only interrupted for a moment when a servant comes over to ask us what we want to eat.  I can see Yusuf's grin - and glean the meaning behind it - from the corner of my eye as I barely manage to stumble over enough words to have her fetch us a plate of fruit.  <br/><br/>Once she leaves, I look at him, and shake my head teasingly with a smile.  He's downright shameless.<br/><br/>After she returns and we've had a few bites - Yusuf lays out the three options of the ships that are leaving before nightfall.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I try to think of which route would be best, but he's looking at me as if he wants to pull me across this table and have his way with me already, and I feel my heart skip a beat.  When he notices the effect he’s having on me via my flushed cheeks, he smirks in a way that sends delicious chills up my back, “Where to next?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>I know what will happen once we land and so, a little sheepishly, I answer, “What do you think of Malta?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yusuf winks at me, and it’s settled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <b>The End</b>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>. . . I *had* to find a way to add Malta in there.  I just had to.</p>
<p>Thank you SO much for reading my very FIRST AO fic, and I could not be happier to dedicate this to such an amazing pairing!  Much love to you all, and have a blessed day &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Gosh, I hope you liked the prologue!  I so adored the different theories I saw about the “big Spoon, little Spoon” dynamic of their relationship.  But to imagine a stressed out set of soldiers, needing to be next to one another to feel safe, was the one that just inspired this whole story.  I wanted to set up their early years as this necessity, that turns into these sweet, quiet moments where they begin to realize all the little things they notice about one another is actually them falling in love.  A projected slow burn, that is propelled to the forefront in the most dramatic way possible.  Now all that being said - let’s get inside their heads a bit ;)  Happy reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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